Charlie Boy
by Klarinette-18
Summary: It's St. Patrick's Day, and the boys have invited Charles out for drinks. Charles obliges, but is put off by the fact that there are big plans for the next day—plans that obviously have been broken, already—and no one seems to care.


**Title: **"Charlie Boy"  
**Author: **Klarinette-18  
**Character(s)/Pairing(s): **Charles/Pickles, Dethklok  
**Rating: **T  
**Word count: **822  
**Summary: **It's St. Patrick's Day, and the boys have invited Charles out for drinks. Charles obliges, but is put off by the fact that there are big plans for the next day—plans that obviously have been broken, already—and no one seems to care.  
**Warnings: **Oh, the fluff. Implied slash.  
**Comments: **I thought of this when the Irish lullaby "Danny Boy" went through my head.  
**Disclaimer: **I don't own Metalocalypse. I bow to Lords Small and Blacha.

~-story starts here-~

As with every St. Patrick's Day, the boys had insisted on getting absolutely trashed, even though the only one of them who was even a little bit Irish was Pickles. _'We ams all Irish tonights, butlers man!' _Toki had said to him, sporting a green t-shirt and sequin leprechaun hat. Charles hadn't really wanted to go out to the bar, but the workload was relatively light, so he figured he could take some time out to appease the boys, just for tonight, seeing as they'd promised him a long, hard day in the studio tomorrow.

When twelve-thirty in the morning came, Charles decided it was time to turn in, leaving the boys to continue drinking without him.

"Please try to come home at a reasonable hour," he'd said to them, realizing how ridiculous it was for him to have said that, with absolute sincerity, at such an hour, however necessary it may have been.

"Ah, don't worry aboht us, Charlie, we'll be fiiiiine," the drummer responded.

"Very well, then. Just remember that we have a record to work on, so uh… don't think that your impending hangovers will be an adequate excuse."

"Ya hear dat, boys? We gahtta werk on the record tomahrrow! Don't git too drunk, now," Pickles bellowed at the rest of Dethklok as though they weren't sitting next to and across from him. Skwisgaar let out a long _'Pfffff' _and took a swig of his drink. Toki was falling all over himself. Murderface looked like he was going to throw up. Nathan stared blankly, nodding his head to some unheard tune.

Charles pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, "Well, good night, then." As he approached the exit, he thought he'd made it there safely until he heard Nathan call out in anger, "He can't leave yet, he's only had two drinks! What kind of Irish person is he?" The manager continued walking, pretending not to have heard Skwisgaar yell, "Comes backs here, butlers man!"

He sat in his chair, reflecting on the evening's events; he'd watched Nathan drink pint after pint of beer while Murderface struggled through shots of green food colouring-dyed Jose Cuervo; Toki had been drinking mixed drinks with varying levels of vodka, and Skwisgaar had been drinking Schnapps, as well as the occasional shot of Aquavit; Pickles had finished an entire freshly-cracked bottle of Grey Goose. He looked at the pages of his day planner, absently scribbling a thick question mark along the entire length of the next day's block, marked "Studio Day". The one time that he'd managed to clear his schedule for the boys, and it looked now as though it may have been a fruitless endeavor. _"So much for that," _he thought to himself.

Charles was finding it hard to care while it was so blindingly apparent that the boys didn't. He was angry; they knew what he'd done to make tomorrow possible, and yet, they were at the bar, getting drunk and wasting time and money—they didn't care. It "isn't metal" to care. He started vaguely entertaining ideas of setting up press conferences and meetings for their hung-over asses when he was suddenly brought back to the moment by the sound of singing behind his closed door…

_Oh Charlie boy, de pipes, de pipes are caaahlling_

_From glen to glen, and down the mountain siiide…_

The manager thought he must be drunk and hearing things, "Pickles?"

The door opened and revealed a less-than-sober drummer—but nowhere near as drunk as Charles had originally thought—with a bottle in his hand…

_The summer's gahn, an all de flowers are dyiiing._

_'Tis you, 'tis youuu mest go and I mest biiide._

It was only now that he noticed a couple articles of clothing missing from Pickles' person—his shirt, his shoes… the addition of a green bowler hat…

_But come ye back when summer's in 'e meadowww,_

_Or when 'e valley's hushed and white with snowww._

He could only smile and feel the tension of the evening fall away from him, finding the whole thing absolutely adorable, chuckling at the Yooper's pronunciation and slightly cracking voice…

_'Tis I'll be here in sunshine or in shehdowww._

_Oh Charlie boy, oh Charlie boy, I love you sooo._

The redhead smirked a half-grin and raised the bottle of brandy in his hand, wiggling his eyebrows, "Drink, m'love?"

"Yes, please." Pickles took two glasses from a sparkling, crystal set on the large bookshelf to the right of the doorway, walked over to Charles' desk and set them down, pouring a shot or two of brandy into each. The two men each picked up a glass and gently clicked them together.

"Happy Saint Patty's, Charlie!"

Charles smiled, enthralled in the moment, "Same to you, Pickles." His night had suddenly gotten much longer, but he couldn't find it in himself to be upset about it anymore—or about tomorrow's empty schedule, for that matter.

END.


End file.
